As Sweet as Honey

35




Some days in town, Meterling and Oscar dropped in at Lyle & Assam’s Cafetiere. Mostly, they sold fine cigars, but a sign advertising Italian coffee led her in the first day, stroller and all. It didn’t smell like cigars inside, exactly, more of wood. Behind glass cases were the cigars, from Brazil, Colombia, Mexico, everywhere but Cuba. Beautiful wooden boxes lined with more wood held the smokes, while the discarded boxes were scattered about. Ever since childhood, Meterling loved cigar boxes. Grandfather had a supply of them, and she would run her hand over the smooth wood and the fragile paper labels, imprinted with names like “Royale Jamaica” and “Arturo Fuente y Cia.” She used to store shells and treasures in them, later pencils. While Grandfather had a rare smoke, she’d sit by him, a pencil in her mouth, imitating him and keeping out of sight of Grandmother.

An Iranian man with a curious tilt of his head and a kind smile looked at her and Oscar from behind the counter.

“You have coffee?” she asked, hesitantly, thinking that maybe the sign was a code for something else. She had not yet got used to the advertisements for prostitutes in the friendly red telephone boxes. What did “coffee” stand for? Hashish? Arms?

It meant cappuccino, in a small porcelain cup, with cinnamon. Gratefully, she warmed her hands and throat, as the man came around to coo at Oscar. This was Assam, a thin man whose business partner was named Lyle. Lyle was American, and was largely MIA, a silent partner, being an alpine skier whose father financed the store’s start with money from his dry goods stores in Peoria, Illinois. Assam ran the business, Lyle visited six times a year, and they were the best of friends.

They could not afford to call the place simply Assam’s, he said. “Half the people walking by already think the store is a front for arms traders,” he said as Meterling blushed.

“Not you? Come on, you’re Indian.”

Island, she corrected, thus beginning a lasting friendship, her first in London.

Lately, though, Assam had become more voluble in his speech, bemoaning the lack of clientele, speaking of closing the shop.

“This country eats you alive, Mrs. Forster. Sometimes I just want to get out.”

“But why?”

He didn’t reply, and she did not know what to say except cheerful things that rang false.

“Assam-ji, why don’t you come to dinner this weekend with the family?”

He smiled ruefully. “We’re going to visit my wife’s parents in Northumberland. But you must throw a party, Mrs. Forster. It is Diwali, after all, and it will lift your spirits. We like to entertain and eat, we Easterners, and if we don’t, we will wilt like flowers.”

She finished her coffee and paid, checking on Oscar and readying to leave the store.

“Don’t wilt like a flower, Mrs. Forster!”